Meebs
by randommuffintpk
Summary: Over two weeks after their relationship has become official (or whatever you want to call it), John and Sherlock still have not been physically intimate. Why would that be? Written by an asexual as a response to inaccurate portrayals of asexuality. Prepare to be educated as well as entertained. Rated M for sexual content and language (because, well, it takes place in England).
1. An Understandable Misunderstanding

**Hello again, everyone. This story, which is dear to my heart, is based on my own feelings about some of the facets of asexuality and how those facets can impact a person's relationships. In telling this story, I'd like to educate you, the reader, about asexuality itself, because many people make incorrect assumptions about those who identify as such and I'd like to set the record straight. As a demiromantic asexual, my goal is to raise awareness about one of the least-understood sexual orientations in the world, and why it can be a wonderful thing. Canonically, Sherlock Holmes presents as a very asexual character in a way that can't be eliminated from possibility by such factors as time period in which his stories take place or narrative bias on the part of John Watson or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. If you'd like to learn about asexuality while being entertained, then I'd read this story. If you don't care two figs about asexuality but are a Johnlock fan, I'd still definitely read this.**

**Ready? Off we go.**

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Meebs: Chapter 1

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, John. When am I ever unsure?"

The secret had come out fifteen days, three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fourteen seconds before John had asked Sherlock a Sensitive Question.

The secret was, in fact, not really a secret — at least, not to John, who had lived with and known Sherlock for over three and a half years. While in the beginning of their friendship John had dated a number of people, men and women alike, this behaviour had virtually vanished over the next year as he felt himself being drawn more and more to his aethereal flatmate. And the more he observed the consulting detective, the more aware he became of certain behavioural consistencies.

For example: Sherlock never dated. Not anyone, not ever. If they were in a pub — either shadowing a suspect or in an attempt by John to get Sherlock out of the bloody house for the first time in a week — and someone attempted to come on to the tall younger man, he would firmly rebuff their advances with hardly a glance. Even if the person approaching him did not seem to be harbouring any sort of lascivious intent, Sherlock still sent them packing.

It puzzled John. He had always figured that someone possessing such allure and elegance would naturally be a creature of strong sexual prowess. Considering the pride that the younger Holmes took in his appearance and his uncanny ability to turn on the charm like a suave, upper-crust politician, his looks and his attitude didn't seem to match up.

For another thing: Sherlock, as far as John could tell, had never, erm, _relieved_ himself in the entire time that they had been living together. The man never dated, so, John reasoned, he must need to have the occasional wank, just to, you know, "clean out the pipes" or whatever you want to call it. But he was ninety-nine-point-seven percent sure that the consulting android had never dabbled in the Sexy Party of One activities — though if he had, he displayed no physical post-orgasmic symptoms. It was altogether just generally befuddling.

And then John and Sherlock had gone from being two halves of one whole to being two halves of another whole entirely, the whole where one half searches for another half until they are a whole in the most wholesome way possible. How this came about is a maddening, humorous, and quite sexy story, but will be told at a later date. Right now we are focusing on the results of a Sensitive Question. Which brings us back into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street on Friday, 29 November, 2013, at 10:44 p.m.

John blinked twice in rapid succession, licking his lips unconsciously as his back went ramrod straight in his squashy armchair. "Sherlock—" He had to stop to clear his throat, which suddenly felt dry as his sense of humour. "You don't have to say that. I'm fine with what we have."

Sherlock grinned. "It's wonderful for you to say that, because, in theory, what we have should be enough." He gestured vaguely in the air between their chairs, but underlying his usual baritone rumble was a glint of_ something_ that John did not recognise at the time. Later he would realise that, for the first time in his life, Sherlock sounded _nervous_. How odd.

"Sherlock, listen to me. You don't have to do this just to make me happy. I'll get along fine without it." John, while acknowledging that the sort of attraction he felt to the gorgeous man sitting across from him was perfectly natural, still felt a bit guilty over the fact that he wanted something that Sherlock did not naturally want to give. And that most romantic relationships did not thrive without it.

The world today was, to be frank, completely sex-obsessed. Sex and innuendo were utilised in nearly everything nowadays, from entertainment – film, music, television, video games – to advertisements for just about anything. No wonder Sherlock used the words "boring" and "tedious" when describing ordinary life. He just wasn't interested in any of it at all.

'_I am a brain, John. The rest of me is a mere appendix.'_ Sherlock had said this within a few months of their living together; John had accepted the statement with little thought – Sherlock Holmes seemed to be nothing but a bundle of grey matter – but fifteen days, three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fourteen seconds ago that remark had become even more significant. He could still recall the feeling he'd gotten when Sherlock had blurted out the not-so-secret secret: he was shocked and absolutely terrified that some series of lines had been irrevocably crossed...

John shook his head a little and squared his shoulders in an attempt to banish the sudden onslaught of negative emotion that was on the verge of overwhelming him. He looked up – Sherlock seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, and had been worrying his lower lip between his teeth while John was lost in thought.

John reached across the space between their two chairs in front of the fireplace to grasp Sherlock's hand, thumb automatically stroking the snowy skin that stretched across thin phalanges. "Sherlock," he insisted, staring into quicksilver eyes, "don't ever feel the need to do anything you don't want to do." There. That was that; it needed to be said. Having relayed the most important thing that John may have stated so far regarding their new relationship, he smiled warmly at his flatmate-turned-more, eyes crinkling at the corners. "C'mon, let's go to bed – I'm knackered." Not true – he was sort of raring to go, since Sherlock had suggested that they try _it _for the first time. But then his brain had kicked in, and he'd taken Sherlock's feelings into account, and things had gotten all emotional... He was mentally exhausted but physically wide awake. Perhaps he should make some tea. Yes, that sounded nice.

Just as he was about to get up and pad into the kitchen for a cup of chamomile, John got a lapful of consulting detective. A rather determined lapful that was wrapping his limbs round John like a bony octopus. John started, then looked up at his boyfriend in incredulity. "Sherlock, wha-_mmrph_." And now John had both a lapful as well as a mouthful. Sherlock was neither an experienced nor instinctive kisser – they'd only kissed a handful of times since the _John and Sherlock Are an Item_ ship had set sail, and Sherlock had literally only kissed one other person before John. He'd never French kissed. He'd _certainly_ never been the recipient or giver of a thorough snog. John was essentially dealing with a virgin in more than one sense – Sherlock had done nearly nothing sexual in his thirty-three years of existence.

So there was no way that he should be capable of kissing John so thoroughly as to make the doctor short of breath in four seconds flat.

It was almost as if, shortly before this evening's stilted conversation, Sherlock had gotten onto his (read: John's) laptop and assiduously researched The Art of Osculation. Currently he was attacking John's mouth with precise, analytical manoeuvres, like he had memorised some sort of procedural article. He imagined he could read Sherlock's thoughts: _"Pressure, here. Light suction, here. Nip there, then immediately smooth tongue over bitten area to soothe possible resulting pain. Attempt, not too forcefully, to gain entrance to partner's [John's] mouth."_ John's mouth opened on a strangled gasp as Sherlock's tongue gained entrance _"not too forcefully" _and a pale thin hand came up to cradle John's head at the base of his skull.

John was surprised that his bones hadn't melted. He tried to speak with Sherlock, reason with him. "Wai—_ah_…. Wait,Sherlock, stop," he said into the other man's mouth. Sherlock merely growled lowly in defiance and continued his oral assault, the hand that wasn't holding John's head in place coming down to drag at John's t shirt. John jumped when a perfectly manicured fingernail scraped one of his nipples and his hips reflexively bucked upwards. Shit. "_Sherlock,_" he whispered, a desperate tone seeping into his voice as his hands scrabbled for purchase on the younger man's shoulders. "Stop, please. I don't want to—"

"You won't," Sherlock replied breathlessly, continuing to kiss John, his lips moving from the doctor's own down to his strong neck. His mouth latched onto John's heated skin just underneath his jaw, right on the pulse point, and then he slowly _bit down_ and John nearly died, he would've sworn to you right then that his heart almost gave out, except that his mind was too distracted to swear on anything, to say anything other than "Holy bleeding buggering _fuck_." And he did so. Out loud.

Sherlock's gravelly chuckle, interspaced between small moans of his own, seemed to echo throughout the sitting room as the detective catalogued John's responses to various stimuli. A trailing of fingers across the skin just below John's navel resulted in loud, shaky inhalations of breath from his intended recipient. Tugging at John's earlobe with his teeth was even better, if the small squeak emitted from John's lips was any indication. And the subtle gyration of his own narrow hips against the sturdy doctor's own, well, _Christ_, John's reaction to that was the best of all. Sherlock didn't even have a full erection, but John most certainly did, and that pleased Sherlock to no end. John wanted him – it didn't matter that so many people had wanted him before; no, what mattered _right now_ was that John Hamish Watson, army doctor and blogger extraordinaire, _wanted_ him, despite all of Sherlock's irksome idiosyncrasies and faults. The desire present in the man below him was an incredibly heady feeling, almost euphoric, and Sherlock felt like he was getting a little bit high. He was beginning to tremble.

Of course, Sherlock's advances did not go unreciprocated. John's left hand was glued in that unruly mess of black curls, his right hand meandering down to grasp a handful of firm arse. Sherlock jumped at this, but continued in his ministrations, letting out a shaky little groan and tossing his head back as John used the pressure of his hand on Sherlock's arse to grind their cocks together. "John," he sighed softly, his spine locking momentarily as his nerves were overloaded in a way that he had not experienced in nearly twenty years.

John couldn't help but smile as he heard Sherlock say his name almost reverently. He felt Sherlock grow to full hardness through his costly trousers, and all of a sudden some sort of primal instinct tore through him, a need to take the beautiful man above him and claim him as his own and _only_ his own battered its way to the front of his thought processes. He was going to fuck Sherlock so hard that he wouldn't be able to see straight.

And then it hit him that _Sherlock Holmes _had just gotten a full hard-on and was attempting to undo the button on his jeans.

_Huh? What? How?_ Regaining a measure of his senses at last, John gently but firmly pried Sherlock off of him, so that the younger man was slouched in John's lap. Sherlock was the picture of virginal sexual arousal, all plump lips and flushed cheeks and wide, uncertain eyes, perfectly aware of what was to come next in theory but lacking in actual experience. John had to consciously fight the almost violent need that had washed over him moments ago and focus on this, here, because what Sherlock had been doing to him for the last few minutes wildly contradicted what he'd thought to be true of his gorgeous, aloof boyfriend. Things were not adding up in his brain.

"Sherlock," he said, his face contorted in utter confusion, "what are you…how are you…what's going on? How are you _hard_?"

Sherlock's _I'm-surrounded-by-idiots_ face made an unwelcome appearance. "Well, the erection of the penis is usually correlated with male sexual arousal," he replied slowly, looking as though he was trying to explain quantum mechanics to a four-year-old. "Physical and psychological stimulation has led to vasodilation and increased blood flow to the erectile tissue of my penis, my scrotum has pulled tighter, and my testicles have pulled up against my body. Also, I think that I'm beginning to feel the effects of 'sex flush,' which would explain why warmth is spreading from my upper abdomen to my pectorals and lower stomach and hips. Furthermore –"

"Yes, I know that, I went to medical school." John resisted the urge to facepalm. "What I meant is, a couple of weeks ago –"

"Over fifteen days, ago, actually." It was sort of funny to see that Sherlock's compulsion to correct people was intact in sexual situations as well.

John raised an eyebrow. "Right. _Anyway_, what just happened doesn't make sense."

"Considering the context and chronological placement of your comment, I'm assuming that you're confused about my current physiological condition in conjunction with my statement to you shortly preceding our entrance into a romantic relationship." Apparently, Sherlock's brain was very much intact. "What was the phrasing I used again? Ah, yes – I told you that I am 'as asexual as a pond full of algae.'" He grinned in remembrance. John knew very well that he was fond of odd similes.

"Um, yes." John suddenly became sharply aware that Sherlock was still sitting in his lap and that they were both sporting raging erections. "I probably sound like an idiot, but wouldn't your being asexual mean that you don't really, erm…._do_ this sort of thing?

Sherlock stared, his plump bottom lip disappearing partially into his mouth as he bit it. "Are you under the impression that I suffer from a sexual arousal disorder? I assure you, John, I am not impotent." He subtly rubbed their crotches together once more to emphasise his point.

"But, well, I just thought, _asexual_ meant that you didn't really do any of this sort of thing." John was pretty sure that his ears were a bright red.

At this, something seemed to occur to Sherlock, who sat up straighter in John's lap and stared down at the doctor with an expression akin to wonder. "You thought that I would never have sex with you, yet you agreed to be in a relationship with me anyway?" The earth seemed to cease rotating on its axis.

"Well, yeah." John grinned softly at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm about more than the physical things, Sherlock. And what we have –" he reached up to cup the detective's pale face in his hands – "what we have here is so much _more_ than that." He pulled the lanky man down into a hug. And if he saw a tear slip from Sherlock's right eye, if he felt Sherlock's frame shake a little as he breathed, he didn't comment on it. He just held him as Sherlock absorbed the information.

And apparently, John had spoken to the little furry creature (John liked to think it was a kitten – John loved cats) that resided within Sherlock Holmes' chest. "I adore you," he whispered.

John's laugh bubbled out. "Is that what you say in place of 'I love you'?"

The hug broke. "Don't ruin it, Watson," Sherlock retorted with a smirk. "Do not forget that I'm currently sitting on your impressive erection which I almost single-handedly induced."

"True." John grunted. "Thankfully, I have a considerable amount of self-control. Want to go to bed now?" True, it would be disappointing to not have sex to alleviate his condition, but he could dispatch his problem in the shower with quick efficiency.

Sherlock snorted. "It's as if you haven't been listening to a word I've been saying all night. Really, John, try to keep up." John made to bite out a snappy retort, but he choked on it as Sherlock positively _ground down_ on John's lap, their still-clothed cocks rubbing and making the both of them gasp. "I do not experience sexual attraction mentally," Sherlock stated, "and that is a fact of which I am positive. However…" The detective's voice dropped in both pitch and frequency. "I am more than certain that I want to have sex with you. Right now." His eyes were piercing. John couldn't help but groan lowly, drawing a satisfied leer from the man above him. "Furthermore, I want to see just how _much_ 'self-control' you really have." And with that filthy little statement, Sherlock jumped off of John's lap and began to walk away, through the kitchen, down the tiny hall, past the shared loo, and into his darkened bedroom. John stared. Blinked slowly. Exhaled noisily through his nose. Glanced up at the ceiling. And with resigned exasperation and more than a hint of begrudging excitement, he followed the mad detective.

Jesus _fuck_, Sherlock was going to kill him.

* * *

**I feel as though this story will be easier to update than _Epicurean Duress_ because I identify with Sherlock's characterization on a much more significant level. Still, I'm nearly finished with _ED_ and will update soon.**

**And please, whenever you leave a review, please know that simply writing "MORE!" and not commenting on the content at all is very frustrating for writers. I don't get paid to do this, mind you. I'm writing because I like it, and because I love these characters. Please don't treat me like I'm some horny smut-peddler, because A) I do not get horny, and B) My stories are never PWPs. Rant over.**

**'Til next time!**

**-Michaela**


	2. A Series of Frustrating Events

**Thanks to everyone reviewing, favoriting, and following this. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything but a huge collection of books and geeky paraphernalia. Don't sue me.**

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The fact that Sherlock had never once had sexual intercourse was running repeatedly through John's head as he walked down the hall. As he entered Sherlock's dark room, he saw that Sherlock hadn't bothered to turn on any lights – the only light source in the bedroom was the amber glow from the street lamps through the window. Sherlock was perched at the edge of his bed, long legs splayed before him with his hands propping himself up on the duvet. Those black clad legs seemed to go on for miles, and John swallowed hard. He had to take it slow. He needed to make this tolerable for Sherlock. He almost asked the consulting detective for what seemed like the hundredth time if he didn't want to go through with this, but he knew that Sherlock became hell-bent on what he deemed best. John supposed he should just go with it.

He walked forward slowly, until he was between Sherlock's impossibly long legs. He heard the younger man's respiration rate increase. "All right, Sherlock," John said. "I know that you love to be in charge, but considering the fact that I'm the only one here with any experience of this sort, it might be a good idea for us to defer to my knowledge. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly, his eyes deep and dark.

"Good. Do you trust me to make this a good experience for you?"

Another nod. No hesitation this time.

John breathed slowly and scratched his head. Go slowly. _Slowly_. _Whatever it takes, do not hurt him._ And with this in mind, John leant down and slowly brought their lips together.

* * *

In all of those tawdry Hollywood films, it seemed as though kissing was an assertive, domineering act in which the male protagonist felt the need to assure his gasping female counterpart of his undeniable masculinity. But what was happening right now could not have been more different. Sherlock sighed as John's lips met his in a warm, chaste kiss. Was this what _good_ kissing always felt like? This soft, sweet sensation? He believed he could rather come to like it. He could kiss John like this for hours and be perfectly content. He moaned softly as John's arms came up to wrap loosely around his neck.

Earlier, when Sherlock felt the need to make his intentions of satisfying John known and had practically jumped the good doctor, he'd immediately kissed John in the most sexual way he knew how (thanks to the internet and entertainment industry, of course). To be honest, though, it hadn't really done anything for him. The use of teeth and tongue made him quite uncomfortable, really – it took what he viewed as a romantic gesture of affection between two people who cared for each other and twisted it into its own sex act.

All of that sexual kissing sort of defeated the point of kissing in the first place, if you asked him.

Of course, Sherlock knew that pre-coital kisses could not stay chaste for long, and his eyebrow twitched as he felt John's tongue gingerly trace the seam of his lips. He knew what that meant, and opened his mouth accordingly. Allowing his research on the subject of French kissing to come into play at this point, Sherlock readily accepted John's tongue as it swiped across his soft palate and traced the front of his teeth. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste, Sherlock realised, and the fact that John was being so gentle was of great comfort to him. After a few moments he noticed that his breathing was becoming a bit laboured but John's was perfectly steady—he'd have to change that. He needed to make this good for John, and the best way to do that was probably to reciprocate and pour as much need as he possibly could into it.

Without preamble, Sherlock engaged in the battle of let's-see-who-can-lick-the-other-person's-tonsils-most-effectively, taking John by the hips and bringing their bodies closer. He focussed on John's mouth: how smooth the insides of his cheeks felt, how warm the man was. He knew that tongues were incredibly useful organs, but decided that when it came to another person sticking theirs into his mouth or him doing the same to theirs, it was altogether something he could do without. Judging by the uneven breathing of the man above him, though, Sherlock could tell that John very much liked a good snog. Pleasing John made Sherlock happy. That's what this sex thing was about: making John happy, making this good for him. John deserved it.

Deciding that it was acceptable to move things along, Sherlock began to slowly recline and shift over until his head was lying on the pillows at the head of the bed; their kiss remained unbroken, John bent over his lover, knees framing narrow hips. "You are stunning," he breathed into Sherlock's mouth, and then pulled back slightly too look at the beautiful madman below him. "I love you."

Sherlock groaned lowly at that and dug his fingers into the back of John's shirt. Good God, those _words_ had done more for him than any of this so far. He'd never felt more treasured or more loved in his entire life. Things would be all right tonight. He was absolutely positive. John gave him courage.

* * *

Hearing Sherlock's throaty rumble had somehow made John even more aroused than he already was, to the point of it being almost painful. Quickly, he broke their kiss and glanced down to see if the bulge in Sherlock's trousers was still there: it was, thankfully, and he reached down to palm it. He tried not to grin too widely when Sherlock's eyes shot open and he let slip an undignified sort of squeak. God, this was going to be fun.

Leaving Sherlock's expensive button-down untouched—John knew that his obsession with Sherlock's snug shirts was perfectly logical—he made his way downward on the bed until he was faced with the man's clothed erection. "This looks uncomfortable," John teased, breathing warm air directly over Sherlock's confined cock.

The detective merely growled a string of profanity that would make a construction worker cringe and took hold of John's hair with one hand. "Don't you _dare_ stop now," he grated, voice strained.

John couldn't help but smirk. Sherlock was a bit stupid sometimes. "Stop? Why would I stop? I've taken it upon myself to make you come so hard you can't remember your name—I'm not going to leave until you've shouted my name half a dozen times and you can't see straight."

That shut Sherlock up like nothing else had. John made a mental note to try actual dirty talk in the future and see what resulted. Figuring that he was good to proceed, he undid Sherlock's trousers and freed the man's erection, willing himself not to take a hit on his self-esteem at its impressiveness. It had waned a bit before their snog, but now Sherlock was physiologically where he'd been in the sitting room and it was undoubtedly a bit uncomfortable.

John's mouth twisted a bit as he looked into Sherlock's heated gaze. "I'm not terribly experienced in this area," he hedged, feeling the need for some sort of disclaimer. While it was true that he'd gone both ways in the past, he felt he was still a comfortable two on the Kinsey Scale, perhaps a two-point-five. A couple of mutual wanks and blowjobs in the army and uni, but mostly women. Of course, no measuring tool of any sort could accurately document or describe his consuming attraction to a lanky Belstaff-wearing detective.

Said detective snorted softly. "Perhaps we should form a club."

"I don't think so," John replied, smirking a bit as his gaze pointedly moved down to Sherlock's cock and back up to the taller man's eyes. "We may not be able to say that anymore soon enough."

Sherlock's bottom lip disappeared into his mouth entirely and his cheeks became even rosier. "R…right," he choked out, grasping John's hair lightly to run his fingers through the short blond strands. "Shall we proceed?"

John laughed a bit at the formality. "Relax, Sherlock. Just lie back and feel. And if you need to cry tears of joy I won't hold it against you."

"Well, someone thinks awfully highly of himse-_eaaagh_. Oh…_fuck_." What better way to stop Sherlock Holmes from talking than put his cock in your mouth to short-circuit some neural pathways? Not wanting to take too much time, John had taken Sherlock's cock into his mouth as far as he possibly could and deliberately swallowed around it. Sherlock's hips bucked involuntarily, and John hastily pinned his hips with his right forearm before the consulting detective ended up hurting his throat.

* * *

_Too much. Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch—_ "_John_," gasped Sherlock as he tugged on short sandy hair. This was just too fast. He may have initiated this, yes, but he was embarrassingly overwhelmed. He felt out of control of his body, and it terrified him. For God's sake, he'd literally never had an orgasm in his entire life, and he thought he could handle _John fucking Watson_ on his cock? It was a harsh wakeup call, to be sure. The foreplay was nothing in comparison, and he decidedly disliked the difference between _we're going to have _sex and _we're actually having sex. _He was certain that, for now, at least, he simply wouldn't be able to handle anything from the waist down. _Too much_.

As soon as he felt the pull on his hair, John was up, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—what did I do? Are you okay?"

Sherlock released a very small sigh and shakily tucked himself back into his underwear and refastened his trousers. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. "I'm sorry. I really just…don't—_can't_—I want—" He couldn't look at John.

The ex-soldier shushed him softly before Sherlock stuttered himself into a panic attack. "Hey, hey, it's all right," he whispered, reaching to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and then thinking better of it. The man did not look as though he wanted to be touched right then. Instead he mirrored the taller man, laying down on his back. There was nearly a foot of space between them. John looked over at Sherlock, worried: the man's eyes were shut tight and his lips pressed together in a twisted sort of frown.

"Too much," Sherlock whispered. "I'm sorry. Maybe next time—"

"Sherlock. Look at me," John said. Sherlock turned his head to the left slowly to stare into deep blue. He looked utterly miserable. "This is you, all right? I accept that. If you told me that you never wanted me to touch you ever again, I'd be okay with it." He wouldn't be, but he couldn't say that. Not now, when Sherlock looked to be on the brink of tears. "We already know how we feel. It doesn't need to get any more complicated. Okay?"

Sherlock's mouth slowly untwisted. One of his thin hands reached out, hesitantly, towards John's face. John held perfectly still as Sherlock's index finger traced his jaw, softly as a feather's touch. "Okay," he whispered back.

John smiled warmly at his detective one more time before sitting up. He squirmed a bit upon remembering the current situation in his trousers. _Right_. "Hey, I'm going to go take a quick shower. How about you put the kettle on and we watch telly for a bit?"

Sherlock seemed to understand John's predicament immediately, sliding off the bed and onto his feet. "Milk, no sugar?"

John blinked, containing his astonishment. "You remembered."

Sherlock snorted softly as he padded out of the room, straightening his shirt as he went and muttering to himself. John thought he heard the words _ludicrous_ and _damned adorable_, but he couldn't be sure. Running a hand over his face, he made his way awkwardly to the bathroom.

* * *

Over the next few days, John and Sherlock did nothing more physically than deliver a peck on the other's cheek before leaving the flat. Sherlock could handle that right now. Friday evening had been a shock for him, that was for sure; he'd felt even worse about things when John had come to the kitchen after his shower, hair wet and cheeks flushed. He'd obviously had to masturbate to relieve himself. Sherlock felt ashamed, though he knew he shouldn't. He couldn't help it if he wasn't attracted to anyone, even if that included the one person on this rock that he valued above all others.

John had been trying to get Sherlock to read something that wasn't a forensic journal or crime magazine for over a year, now. Sherlock could still remember a day early on in their living together, when he'd been wandering about the flat (read: snooping in John's room while the doctor was out) and had come across a little list that John had apparently made about the consulting detective and the knowledge he held. '_Sherlock Holmes—his limits,'_ it read.

_1\. 'Knowledge of Literature.—Nil._

_2\. " " Philosophy.—Nil._

_3\. " " Astronomy.—Nil._

_4\. " " Politics.—Feeble._

_5\. " " Botany.—Variable._

_Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally._

_Knows nothing of practical gardening._

_6\. Knowledge of Geology.—Practical, but limited._

_Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them._

_7\. Knowledge of Chemistry.—Profound._

_8\. " " Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic._

_9\. " " Sensational Literature.—Immense._

_He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the last two centuries._

_10\. Plays the violin well._

_11\. Is an expert fencer, boxer, and swordsman._

_12\. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.'_

Sherlock couldn't help but smile, just a little.

So over the past year, John had somehow miraculously gotten Sherlock to read four books that counted as "literature:" _Brave New World_, _Crime and Punishment_, _The Hobbit_, and _A Farewell to Arms_. Naturally, Sherlock had fought him the entire time, claiming that reading fiction was pointless and insipid and, not to be dramatic, but he'd rather be drowned in the Thames in January than read anything else by Ernest Hemingway, thank you very much (He was lying. He lies all the time).

It was currently 6:03 on a Monday evening, and Sherlock was contemplating shooting either the wall or the copy of _The Jungle_ that he'd thrown into the corner—they both made him feel an unearthly amount of irritation. And John was late home from the surgery again, which did nothing to improve his black mood. He huffed a sigh and rolled onto his stomach on the sofa, limbs splayed at gawky angles.

His phone dinged from his dressing gown pocket. Sherlock jerked, whipping the device out and staring at the screen with beady eyes.

_Running a bit late - last-minute patient. Do me a favour and don't mention haemorrhoids for the next fifty years._

_I'll do my best. Oh, and I'll forgive you if you bring dinner. –SH_

_Veneziano's?_

_NO. No more Veneziano's. The owner underpays his workers and does not give them scheduled breaks. We're never giving them our business again. –SH_

…_You read one of my books, didn't you? "The Jungle?"_

The detective smirked. _You shouldn't leave me home with a stack of your favourite books on the table. You are being deliberately provocative. –SH_

_Yeah, well, when I get home with dinner, I refuse to talk about meat inspection and/or socialist ideology._

_Very well. Szechwan Palace instead? –SH_

_Deal. See you in thirty._

* * *

When John got home, they ate, watched crap telly, and looked over John's draft of his latest blog entry before it was uploaded to the website. Sherlock, as usual, didn't approve.

"You make me sound like some sort of tortured, caped crusader," Sherlock whined. "Furthermore, why do you insist on swinging from adoration to exasperation? There's no consistency. You prattle in one paragraph about how intelligent and amazing I am—everyone who reads this knows you're besotted by me, no doubt—and then call me a 'short-sighted dunderhead' in the next! And the description of the standoff with the jewel thief under the bridge? It damn near sounds like a penny dreadful."

"Okay, okay, I get it, you hate it," John groused. "But don't you have anything positive to say about it?"

A pause. "…I like that it was written by you," Sherlock said finally. "I hear your voice whenever I read it."

Not a compliment about the entry itself, but he'd take it. "Thank you," John said. He clicked the _Post_ button. "I take pride in my writing skills. My teacher at uni called my work 'adequate,' of which I'm very proud."

They both chuckled, grinning at each other. But a moment later the chuckling stopped, and they were left staring at one another, traces of smiles lingering on their mouths. John's eyes unconsciously darted down to Sherlock's lips—that sweet, perfect bow never failed to draw his eye—and Sherlock understood. Placing one hand on the back of John's neck, he brought their lips together softly. No internet techniques, no grand gestures. Just a simple press of lips. Again, Sherlock found himself dumbfounded by the sheer physical simplicity and emotional depth of such a seemingly small act.

John sighed, almost inaudibly, and the press of lips turned into a bit more movement, more of a moulding of mouths, which Sherlock supposed was all right. It was like a bit more feeling had been injected into the kiss. The ex-soldier, humming his approval, traced the edge of Sherlock's lower lip, asking for entrance.

Sherlock froze. _Nonono—_

John's eyes opened when Sherlock jerked back, staring at the younger man in confusion and watching him wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the matter?" he asked. Oh God, what if he had horrible breath?

Sherlock stared at his lover with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. "Why did you have to ruin a perfectly good thing?" he demanded, removing his hand from John's neck and scooting towards the other end of the sofa.

John just stared, nonplussed. "…Huh?"

"Things were going wonderfully, and then you decided that they weren't going wonderfully enough for you?" Sherlock huffed. "Must we exchange bodily fluids for you to understand the message I'm attempting to convey?"

Now John was just lost. "Um. You didn't seem to have a problem with it a couple of days ago."

Sherlock felt as though shooting the wall was once again a brilliant idea. "Ugh," he growled lowly, pushing himself off the sofa and stalking off to his bedroom. John didn't understand why he was so uncomfortable. Then again, neither did Sherlock, not completely.

A few long seconds later, John heard Sherlock's door slam shut. He sighed in defeat, slumping against the arm of the sofa. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" he muttered.

The skull grinned at him from the mantle.

* * *

**John's little list about Sherlock's strengths and weaknesses is from _A Study in Scarlet,_ the very first Sherlock Holmes mystery. It really is endearing how much he watches the man. I changed a couple of words that simply couldn't fit into this time period, though.  
**

**In later chapters, I'm going to go into more detail about different aspects of asexuality. Next chapter will likely involve the four main types of attraction.**

**See you then.**


	3. The Morning After (And Not Like That)

**I don't really have anything to put here, other than, "Thanks for reading!"**

**Disclaimer: I'm getting sick of these things. I don't own rights to _Sherlock_ or any of its characters and am making no monetary profit.**

_**But listen here: reviews are like currency, people. They keep writers motivated. Even if it's anonymous, even if it's a "hey, this was nice", it means so so much to us and doesn't take much time. Be a reviewer. We'll fucking love you.**_

* * *

After staring at the skull for a good few minutes, John huffed a small sigh and got up from the sofa. As he padded down the hallway in socked feet, he wondered what exactly he was going to say. _'Sherlock, I'm sorry for offending you by doing…whatever. I'm sorry that I can't read your mind and know exactly what you want.'_

No, that wouldn't do.

He breathed through his nose and knocked softly on the door. "Sherlock?" he called quietly.

A beat. Two beats. Two more. "It's open," came a low voice. John turned the knob and peered into the darkened bedroom, lit only by Sherlock's bedside lamp. The room's owner was sitting on a chair next to his window, feet up with arms wrapped around his knees as he gazed out at Baker Street below. His eyes were distant—it was obvious that he wasn't really looking at anything in particular.

John made no move to stand beside the consulting detective, giving him plenty of space. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, still using hushed tones. He felt as though he would frighten Sherlock off if his voice was at normal decibel levels.

Sherlock's eyes sharpened, then, in what looked a lot like anger, but he did not turn to face John. He said nothing for a few moments. When he finally spoke his tone was cool, flat, muted. "About how I'm going to lose you."

The bottom fell out from John's stomach. "Don't say that," he murmured, Sherlock's words having shocked him into motionlessness. "Don't even think it, Sherlock."

"It's true, you know." Sherlock turned to give John a defeatist's smile that did not reach his eyes. It was really more grimace than smile. "One of the primary reasons why I thought entering into a relationship of this capacity with you was viable was because I believed I would eventually develop sexual attraction to you. If it's not developed yet, and—no offense to you—likely never will, I simply don't see how this will work."

John shook his head. "I already told you that what we have is more than that."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Please believe me, Sherlock." John simply didn't know what else to say. The detective didn't move an inch, just staring at him with those indecipherable, luminous eyes. John sighed softly and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting a bit too long for his liking—he actually had sort-of fringe. "I'm going to bed upstairs tonight, okay?" Best to give him all the space he needed.

Sherlock's mouth hardened. "Okay."

"Goodnight." John turned and began to make his way upstairs. The lack of response from Sherlock's bedroom hung heavy in the air.

It was only as John finally began to drift that he realised why Sherlock had seemed upset when he'd left.

* * *

The next morning seemed different, for which John was incredibly grateful. Last night had been awful, his dreams interlaced with blood and sand and screams and gunshots. He'd woken up in a cold sweat, legs tangled in the duvet, and unconsciously curled in on himself in an attempt to stop his shaking. And he was alone.

He'd clomped down the stairs, desperate for a shower. As he stood under the spray his mind searched for another topic. Sherlock. Oh, hell, what would today be like?

After putting on a clean white t shirt and boxers, his nose twitched as he was wiping the leftover shaving foam from his face. He stared at his puzzled expression in the mirror. Bacon. Had someone broken in? He quietly opened the door and padded down the hall in his bare feet, ready to tackle the mysterious burglar. Gathering his resolve, he whipped around the corner to see—

—Sherlock. Making breakfast.

John stared. This was ridiculously incongruous to the Sherlock he knew, to the point where John wondered if he was just having another dream. The sight before him was just too strange—it was like watching the devil water houseplants.

Sherlock threw a peeved look over his shoulder at the good doctor. "Why in the world are you in a fighting stance? I assure you, this pig is already dead." He prodded the bacon with his spatula.

John straightened, clearing his throat. "Yes. Sorry. Thought you were an intruder."

Sherlock rolled his eyes—John didn't have to say anymore. "Sit," he said, poking in the direction of the table with the spatula. John sat, still unable to keep his eyes off Sherlock as the taller man reached for a tin of beans in a top cabinet. "In the future," Sherlock eventually said, "we will be sleeping in the same bed, regardless of whether or not one of us is upset with the other."

John raised a blond brow. "Er…all right."

"Aren't you going to ask why?" Sherlock flipped the bacon. John suspected that it might be burning by this point but didn't say anything.

"I know that if you want me to know something, you'll tell me."

Sherlock turned to gaze at the ex-soldier with those curious, alien eyes. "We're going to sleep together from now on because I don't want you to have to wake up alone from a nightmare."

John inhaled sharply and looked at the table. When he looked back up at Sherlock, he couldn't help but feel as though the man's gaze was turning his insides to pudding. "Good idea," he said, smiling and willing his eyes not to go misty.

The icy grey in Sherlock's eyes softened to a pale blue. "Do I ever have ideas that aren't?"

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes, the maudlin mood having ended with that question. "The Golem," he said, beginning to tick off his fingers. "The cartel infiltration, the swimming pool, the cabbie, the Chinese circus, shooting the wa—" He was silenced by Sherlock's lips on his. He blinked in shock, and just as it began, it was over again.

"That was a rhetorical question, Doctor," Sherlock murmured. He lightly pecked John on the corner of his mouth and perched on the corner of the kitchen table, seemingly content to trace John's face with his fingertips.

"So why is the great Sherlock Holmes cooking breakfast?" John wondered, reaching up to place his left hand over Sherlock's own. He heard Sherlock's phone ding in the pocket of his dressing gown, but Sherlock uncharacteristically ignored it.

"I _have_ cooked before, you know," Sherlock huffed, brow furrowing as one of his long index fingers trailed over John's jaw. "But to answer your question, breakfast was an attempt to apologise."

"For what?"

"For being less tolerable than usual last night."

Wow, Sherlock really was in a pleasant mood. "You were fine. But, if I may ask, why were you upset? Was it something I did?"

"Yes and no." Sherlock lowered his eyes. "It's just that…Friday evening was a bit of a shock for me. I'm not quite sure how to explain, but it's almost as if my senses were overloaded and it felt as if my nerves were frying when you…"

"Mmhmm." John remembered Sherlock's stuttered apology and hasty retreat. He gestured for Sherlock to continue.

"I thought I was fine over the next few days," he explained. "But then when we were on the sofa and I kissed you, and you did that thing with your _tongue_, I just—"

"Acted like I electrocuted you?" John was half-joking, but Sherlock nodded, eyes wide.

"Exactly! The way I see it, your attempt to perform oral sex on me—" John blushed violently and spluttered— "could be likened to giving me a concussion—I may have felt better after a while, but that doesn't mean I can jump right back into full-contact sports."

While John was not a fan of similes or metaphors, he supposed that referring to sexual activity as a "full-contact sport" was one of the most Sherlockian things he'd ever heard. "So…you're saying that you need some time to recover?"

Sherlock beamed uncharacteristically. "Very good, Doctor Watson." He patted John on the head like he was an obedient puppy. John tried not to pat Sherlock on the cheek. With his fist.

"Well," John said, "I'd like to point out that we've touched this morning. You've kissed me, twice, as well as prodded at my laugh lines and the circles under my eyes for almost five minutes."

"Yes, because I was the one who initiated it." Sherlock reached out and pinched John's cheek, earning a yelp and a glare. He smirked. "You don't become accustomed to casual touching overnight, John." His phone dinged again, and again he ignored it. John's brow furrowed, but he returned his attention to what Sherlock was saying. "If I'm going to be able to stand touching you for prolonged amounts of time—again, no offense intended—I'll need to work my way up to it."

"Ah. All right." John was relieved that he now understood. "That's completely fine. But, you know, you don't _have_ to work up to anything, remember? I'm fine with whatever." He no longer had the libido of a sixteen-year-old, but the concept of possibly never having sex again (because, honestly, he'd always know that he would be in this for the long haul) was still a depressing one.

Then Sherlock smiled at him, eyes nearly gleaming, and John remembered that it would be worth it.

"Have I ever told you that you make rumpled t shirts look positively dapper?" Sherlock remarked. He slowly hooked one of his fingers into the other man's collar.

John chuckled at that. "I thought it was the jumpers you liked." He remained still, allowing Sherlock to initiate any physical contact.

"Mmm. Don't get me started on those," Sherlock rumbled, dropping down to sit on John's lap, making our doctor's eyes widen in surprise. The detective's phone chimed for a third time, and for the third time Sherlock ignored it. Now John was suspicious.

"Aren't you going to read those texts?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "My toad of a brother keeps pestering me, as he is wont to do. I refuse to acknowledge his incessant inquiries."

"Oh. What is—"

Sherlock snorted. "It seems that I'm not doing a good enough job of distracting you," he said, one hand reaching up to play with the hairs at the nape of John's neck. John's suspicions were raised once more. Why was Sherlock touching him so much when last night he'd freaked at an attempted snog?

John was about to ask as much when the younger man suddenly crashed their lips together, moulding his slender body to John's own. John tried to ask Sherlock what the hell was going on, but became distracted as soon as one of Sherlock's hands dove underneath the hem of his shirt. The doctor's arms naturally wound around Sherlock's waist, and the detective released a moan that couldn't be described as other than obscene. Oh, God…

"Your breakfast is burning, dear brother."

John nearly jumped out of his skin, shouting "Holy _shit_!" as Sherlock resolutely remained in his lap, not even turning around.

"What do you want?" the detective demanded.

John watched in silent mortification as Mycroft Holmes sauntered over to the stove and switched the burners off. "How are you today, Doctor Watson?" he asked pseudo-pleasantly, fox eyes darting over the aforementioned doctor's compromising position with his little brother. "Are we having a good morning?"

"It was rather wonderful, until you arrived," Sherlock sniped, glowering from his seat on John's lap.

Mycroft smiled sardonically. "You knew that I was coming, Sherlock. Don't play innocent—you never are."

"You _planned_ this?" John asked, horrified. It made sense now why the lanky man was suddenly so touch-inclined.

Sherlock gave him a lascivious smile. "Marvellous deduction, John. I must be rubbing off on you." No one in the room missed the double entendre.

John gritted his teeth. "I'm going to go put on some clothes. Off." He pushed at Sherlock's chest and the detective stood, allowing John to dash into the hallway, ears burning crimson.

"My, my." Mycroft's voice was a bit quieter than usual. "What a sight. Sherlock Holmes, in love. Has hell frozen over?"

Sherlock stood rigid as a statue. "Would it really be so surprising?" he said stiffly. His glare had not softened.

Mycroft chuckled, a note of derision in his tone. "No, not at all. You, Sherlock, are built like a meringue—for all that tough exterior, you're still soft as toffee on the inside."

"Trust you to make this conversation about dessert, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother frowned petulantly, but recovered his oily smile in a flash. "Deflection so soon into a conversation? You've rather shown your hand."

Sherlock sneered. "Is your memory span so diminished by old age that you can't answer my original question? Why are you here?"

Mycroft ignored the snipe and sauntered into the sitting room, leaning his umbrella against John's chair (Sherlock made a mental note to sanitise it later). "I've merely come here to check on you. Is that a crime?"

"A personal visit is hardly necessary—you have access to every surveillance system in this city."

"I do," murmured Mycroft, now sitting in John's red chair (Sherlock internally cringed). "As it so happens, Sherlock, I have noticed that over the past few weeks you and our friend John have become, shall we say…_intimate_?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Is my personal life the focal point of your voyeuristic urges?" he demanded as he stalked over to stand in front of his brother. He knew what Mycroft was doing. "Do not try to talk to me about this, Mycroft," he warned. "If you're attempting to butter me up for some big case, this is not the road you want to take."

Mycroft chuckled. "I'm just surprised, that's all. For a person who's been incredibly touch averse his entire life to throw himself into something as touchy-feely as a romantic relationship is curious."

Sherlock tossed his head. "Enough with the pseudo-pleasantries. Tell me why you're really here." He fell backwards into his chair, fingers coming up into their characteristic thinking steeple.

"I was serious, Sherlock. Mummy sent me here to check on you."

"Mummy?" Sherlock said in disbelief. "She knows I can't bear the sight of you."

Mycroft raised a long thin eyebrow. "Yes. She also knows that someone needs to keep an eye on you at all times. It wouldn't exactly bode well if you were caught in another drugs bust, now, would it?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his mouth opened in preparation of a volley of vitriol, but he thought better and closed it.

Mycroft continued. "You haven't been home for Christmas in two years, Sherlock. Mummy and Father are worried. You've spoken on the phone with them exactly once in that amount of time, and if it weren't for me constantly updating them on your whereabouts, they'd likely believe you dead. You've been incredibly irresponsible."

"Don't presume that you can discipline and shame me," Sherlock growled, eyes hardening to a glacial blue. "I will not allow them to be put in harm's way."

"Who do you suppose can do them more harm, Sherlock? Your potential enemies, or yourself?"

The consulting detective repressed the urge to pout like a twelve-year-old. "Ugh, fine. You've made your point. I will go to Christmas dinner this year."

"John, too." Sherlock made to argue, but Mycroft continued speaking. "Our parents have become aware of the new amorous addition to your life—"

"In other words, you're a shameless gossip," Sherlock snapped.

His brother raised an eyebrow but continued nevertheless. "They insist that you bring the young man that's stolen your heart." He looked faintly nauseated at having emitted those words, as did Sherlock.

"Who's stolen what?" John came into the sitting room then, straightening the already straight collar of his plaid button-down. "Do you have a new case for us, Mycroft?"

Mycroft turned to smile at John after winking conspiratorially (and not a little menacingly) at his little brother. "In a manner of speaking, John." He stood from the doctor's chair. "Sadly, I must be off. Plenty of work to be done, after all. President Zeman is having a fit…" he then realised that he was still talking aloud and promptly made his leave, taking care to remember his precious brolly. "Good day, Sherlock, John," he called as he opened the door leading to the stairs. "I'll be in touch."

Sherlock snorted, sinking further into his chair so that his limbs sprawled. "He makes pencil pushing sound so _fascinating_." The disdain in his tone nearly dripped down onto the carpet.

"Well, that was a short visit," John said, ambling into the kitchen and switching on the kettle.

"You make it sound like a bad thing," his lover mumbled from the sitting room.

John chuckled. "You'll hear no complaints from me. So, what did he say in the whole three minutes he was here?" He turned and leaned one hip against the countertop, arms folded.

"He attempted to shame me into going to Christmas dinner this year."

"And did it work?"

Sherlock harrumphed and eyed John with irritation, sulking in silence for a few moments before replying grudgingly. "Don't feel the need to take a gift. Oh, and make sure you wear a holiday-appropriate jumper. That deep green one would do nicely—it makes your shoulders look impressive." John grinned at Sherlock's indirect admission of defeat.

A few minutes later and the kettle began to shriek. John poured the water into the two mugs he'd already picked out—his had a picture of the TARDIS, while the one he'd chosen for Sherlock featured Hogwarts Castle (Sherlock never understood the pop culture references on some of John's mugs, but tea was tea and John grinned whenever he caught Sherlock drinking from an _I heart Spock_ mug).

Sherlock sniffed at his tea after John handed him his mug and sat down. "Chai?"

"Rooibos, yeah. It is December after all."

They sipped in silence for a bit. "So you really like my jumpers?" John asked suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere.

Sherlock _mmm_-ed his assent over the rim of his mug. "They're incredibly becoming." He meaningfully eyed the doctor up and down, smirk barely visible behind his tea.

John's laugh bubbled out of him at that. "Harry says they're absolutely hideous. Make me look like a great big lump."

"That's precisely why I like them," Sherlock replied. "They hide how attractive you are from those who don't know you—it's almost as if your looks are for my eyes only."

John flushed slightly at the praise, but something was niggling him. "Thanks. But there's something I don't really get." He ignored the _"As per usual"_ look Sherlock flashed him. "I know now that you and sexual attraction aren't mates. So what do you mean when you say that you like the way I look?"

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair, eyeing John speculatively. "It means exactly what you just said."

"…Okay. Clarify."

"How can I make this simpler?" Sherlock muttered to himself under his breath. John's eyes rolled to glance at the ceiling. "Well. You know the feeling you get whenever you see a particularly attractive panting? Or listen to a favourite piece of music?"

"Yeah." John had actually listened to quite a lot of classical and romantic (the musical era, _not_ love songs, though there were some of those as well) music growing up, and Sherlock had been delighted when John had told him that one of his favourite songs was Mendelssohn's _Hebrides Overture_.

"Looking at you is like that."

John blinked. "I make you think of art?"

Sherlock chuckled. "What I mean is that I find you pleasing, John. Looking at you is like admiring a Rembrandt or a Monet, except I don't have to visit a museum to do so. Listening to your voice when you shout or giggle or carry on is like listening to Rachmaninov. You're a generally aesthetically pleasing person."

A dopey grin was sneaking its way onto the army doctor's face and there was nothing he could do to halt its progress. "So you find me 'aesthetically attractive.'" It was like conversing with a Vulcan.

"Yes, John, yes. I believe I just explained it to you well enough."

"Okay, Mister Condescension, then I have another question for you."

"Of course you do."

"Living up to your nickname already, I see." John snorted in pretend exasperation. Sherlock glared. "Easy there. This is my next question—"

"You want to know about the kissing and the hand-holding and the cuddling." The lanky detective crossed his legs, one long hand propping up his head with the bony elbow on its accompanying arm digging into the armrest. John contemplated the way Sherlock's mellifluous baritone turned _cuddling_ into such a multi-layered term.

"Um, yes."

"Tell me, John," Sherlock said, grin disconcertingly Cheshire, "when was the last time you considered hugging a sexual activity?"

John willed his brain not to melt as mental images of hugs with his parents, grandparents, and sister flashed through his mind. "Never," he stated emphatically.

"Precisely. And, as another example…" Here Sherlock leaned across the space between their chairs and left a slow, lingering kiss on John's unsuspecting lips before returning to his chair. "Did that seem at all sexual to you?"

Soft, yes. Sweet, yes. Loving, abso-bloody-lutely. John touched his lips. "No, it didn't," he murmured in reply. "It seemed more like you were…telling me something."

"I don't mind showing affection using physical sensation, so long as it isn't sexually motivated," Sherlock said, confirming John's thoughts regarding the detective's meaning behind the kiss. "Most people I can't bear touching me, but you always seem to be the exception. Although, for a while, it may be best if I initiate any physical contact." A flicker of guilt or shame or something that John _knew_ Sherlock needn't feel flashed in the genius's eyes as they both remembered their conversation earlier that morning.

"Sounds fine with me," John said, trying to set his lover's mind at ease before he shut down.

Sherlock's minute expression looked torn between a smile and a frown. "Thank you," he said, voice clipped and controlled. "Now," he said suddenly, rising from his seat, "before this conversation becomes even more unbearably maudlin, I think I'll phone Lestrade. Or Dimmock, whoever picks up first." And with that he swanned from the room in his typical Sherlockian fashion, head high as ever.

John laughed quietly to himself as he watched his love go. The conversation had certainly been enlightening for him, but it was still a lot to process and piece together. As he got up from his squashy armchair and took his and Sherlock's mugs to the kitchen, a thought occurred to him that had many times before, but now in a new light.

Sherlock Holmes was asexual, but that didn't mean he did not care for John in a profound, non-platonic way. He did not stare at others the way he gazed at his doctor. He hugged and kissed no one but John. He did not fall asleep with his head in the lap of just anyone. He shared his bed with no one else. And those three little words, those tiny, monosyllabic, incredibly simple-but-_not_ words whispered to him by a man thought by most to be a machine were for John H. Watson and John H. Watson alone.

And that, well, to the aforementioned John H. Watson, _that_ was quite marvellous indeed.

* * *

**So, if you've learned anything about asexuality so far, or have questions for me, please feel free to leave a review. Kudos to anyone who can correctly name the four basic types of attraction covered in this chapter.  
**

**This chapter covered a small chunk of time; the next will see these boys actually getting to work. I'm considering pulling our friend Jim into this. Anyway, see you then.**


	4. The Plot Thinnens

**Hi! Hello! So sorry for taking so long to update; school is murder. Only my good grades made up for it. I'm also the vice president of an LGBT support group, and that takes up quite a bit of my time as well. I also do beta work, which I love, and helps to keep me busy whenever I'm feeling blocked. But! My school schedule right now is nowhere near as busy as it was the last few months, which means I can dedicate more time to writing. Hooray! Currently I have works in progress for _Doctor Who_ and _Star Trek_ as well, so be looking out for those as well as the final chapter of _Epicurean Duress_ and updates on _Family Values_. Now, off we go.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but a dog that I swear is Martin Freeman's spirit animal, and he's technically not even mine. So there.**

* * *

"Hm, that didn't take long."

"Sorry?" John glanced behind him at Sergeant Donovan, who was lingering at the edge of the crime scene after grudgingly letting Sherlock and John through. She fondled her walkie-talkie, a cross between a smirk and a sneer curling the edges of her lips.

"You. Freak. How is he?"

John had a nasty feeling that she wasn't inquiring about Sherlock's health. Instead of responding, he merely narrowed his eyes slightly, stood a bit taller, and walked away. He had no time for bullies.

* * *

As soon as he stepped across the threshold into the stupidly resplendent government office—Whitehall, just ridiculous—he was assaulted by the smell of vomit and exhaled quickly. "What the hell?" he muttered, breathing through his mouth. The odour was emitting from a rubbish bin that had likely been hidden under the elephantine desk that dominated the room, but had been pulled out. Sherlock's head was currently half-jammed in the bin as he examined the vomit, and John felt nausea poke him in the stomach at the sight. "Sherlock, get your head out of there."

"I'm not _touching_ it, obviously. Lestrade won't let me—forensics has to analyse the stomach contents."

Lestrade, clearly having difficulty in not allowing the smell of the sick to affect his gag reflex, stood beside the consulting detective with the usual expression of long-suffering patience that was probably, in his mind, worthy of sainthood. "We have to, officially, but you're faster. Can you give us any hints as to where Mr McClellan might be ahead of time?"

Sherlock stood up—his hair was free of vomit, as far as John could tell—and snapped on a nitrile glove that had been resting on the desk. "Glass," he muttered, eyeing a crystal tumbler on the desk's surface.

"Careful—we need to dust for fingerprints," said Lestrade.

Sherlock threw a gimlet eye over his shoulder. "The only way you'll find any is if Anderson makes one of his unsurprisingly common errors. This glass is clean." He picked it up then, examining the outer surface. "Here," he said, showing Lestrade and John what appeared to be five flat, round impressions on the outside of the glass as well as five marks that were very obviously fingerprints.

"It could just be that I'm an idiot," said the detective inspector sardonically, "but I see fingerprints. Five of them. Didn't you say there wouldn't be any?"

Sherlock snorted lightly and looked at the inspector with what seemed like profound pity. "They belong to McClellan—I believed it apparent enough to not deserve mentioning. I guess not. He had to pick up the glass to drink its contents, unless he decided to use some sort of hidden telekinetic power." The sarcasm in his tone oozed like caustic waste.

"What was in it?" prompted John in an attempt to turn Sherlock's scorn from Lestrade.

"In a moment, John. See these round prints on the glass?"

John looked. On one side of the tumbler, there were four marks closely grouped together and running almost vertically; the fifth mark, larger than the others, was on the glass's opposite side. "They look like fingerprints…without the fingerprints."

Sherlock grinned. "Exactly."

"So someone with no identifiable fingerprints handled the glass—probably gave it to McClellan—and poisoned it. It's looking to be a homicide," Greg said, the last part of his statement sounding almost like a question as he looked to Sherlock for confirmation.

The consulting detective frowned. "Abduction. He wasn't poisoned. Well—not fatally. Smell." He tossed the glass carelessly to John, who couldn't help but jump.

"Evidence!" he cried, dreading a lecture from NSY's most overworked detective inspector.

"Agh—just—never mind, go ahead," Greg grumbled, dragging a hand down his grizzled face. "No useful fingerprints, anyway."

John looked uncertainly at Lestrade one more time and then turned to sniff the glass. "Alcohol," he said, glancing at Sherlock; the grey-eyed man lowered his chin slightly, urging John to continue. John sniffed again. "It smells like…sap. Tree sap?"

"Ipecac."

"Syrup of ipecac? His drink was laced with it?"

"Not just laced with it, but generously administered. Done by either an amateur who had no idea how much to administer to induce vomiting, or someone who knew to purposely overdose to cause such a violent reaction in McClellan." Sherlock glanced over at the bin holding the government official's stomach contents. "Spray patterns of the vomit indicate that it was rather forcefully spewed."

"Ipecac isn't recommended for inducing vomiting anymore, though," said John, still looking at the glass. "It's not as effective as we used to think at removing toxins from the stomach."

"It might be out of production, but there are still several avenues through which it can be obtained."

"True." At the clinic, John had come across a mother who had given her child ipecac after he swallowed dishwashing liquid; he'd still had to send the boy to the hospital. "So," he said, turning to Sherlock, who had turned to take in the room. Before he could say anything else to the consulting detective, though, the man in question darted out into the reception area. "Here, you might still be able to get some DNA off of this," he said to Lestrade, carefully setting the glass back onto the table. Lestrade just gave him a long-suffering look and turned back to a crime scene worker.

John walked out of the office, only to be presented with Sherlock's bum sticking out from underneath what was likely McClellan's secretary's desk. "What are you looking for?"

"Hidden panel. No such luck."

"Why?"

"Receipts, papers, notes, something useful." Sherlock shuffled backwards from underneath the desk and stood up, brushing off his trouser knees.

"You didn't mention it earlier: why didn't the second person who handled McClellan's glass have fingerprints?"

Sherlock stared. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Don't make me go through this again."

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed, "your ignorance never fails to charm. There are several ways that one can get rid of fingerprints."

It's a good thing Sherlock had abruptly switched tacks, thought John, or he might've been the victim of a rugby tackle. "And how can one go about doing that?"

"Several ways." Sherlock turned and began to open drawers in the secretary's desk. He glanced on the desk at a framed photograph, ten years old at least, of two girls who seemed to be in their early teens. They were both smiling, radiant. Boring. Drawers? Nothing. Filing cabinet? The same. Computer? Sherlock sat in the swivel chair, turning on the machine.

"You going to tell me, or shall I pull up Google?" John leaned against the wall as he waited for the detective to successfully crack the secretary's password.

"Sandpaper, pumice, capecitabine, industrial-strength glue," Sherlock muttered, then rolled his eyes as he typed "_asdfjkl;_" and hit enter. Up popped the desktop.

John looked; those were the keys upon which a person's fingers rested when typing. "That was just a bit too easy," he said.

Sherlock chuckled to himself quietly. "Oh, she thinks she's clever. They all do."

"Trying to show she's got nothing to hide?" John guessed.

"Likely. Do you know what happens to a person's fingers when they're constantly handling papers and typing, John?"

"I'm guessing you'll tell me but first you want to enjoy the build-up."

"That sounds like him." Lestrade had joined them at the desk.

"Over time, the pads of your fingers are worn down," said Sherlock finally. "Eventually your fingerprints can grow back, yes, but the point is that there are occupations where fingerprints can be worn away—bricklaying, chemical work involving calcium oxide, secretarial work…." Sherlock's eyes became unfocussed as he stared into space. "Oh."

"What?" The detective inspector and doctor said simultaneously.

Sherlock frowned. "Too easy, nothing to hide. Not that simple," he muttered. "Lestrade, I'm going to need information on every piece of legislation approved by McClellan for the past sixth moths at least."

"What does he mainly deal with?" John asked Lestrade.

"Abortion clinics, more specifically the approval of building them. Any in England not built by the NHS have gone past this man's desk."

"Great." Abortion, as John realised, was a touchy subject for some people.

"So you think the secretary's in on this?" Lestrade asked Sherlock. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and stood up from the secretary's chair. "She could be part of a protest group. NIMBY, Abort67, that sort of thing."

"Mm. This is where you can be marginally useful," said Sherlock. "I'm finished here. Send me the info on that legislation. Evening."

John looked at Greg sympathetically before jogging to catch up with the detective's long stride.

* * *

John felt a sinking sensation in his gut as he saw Sherlock locked into a conversation with Donovan at the edge of the police tape. He couldn't hear what was being said yet, but judging by the tilt of Sally's head and the rigidity of Sherlock's spine, he guessed that those things weren't a happy subject.

"…didn't even realize you would be capable," the sergeant was saying condescendingly, embittered gaze sweeping across Sherlock mercilessly. "Of shagging, that is. I asked John earlier how you are, but he didn't answer. Oh—don't tell me, some parts have been decommissioned?"

"What in hell is wrong with you?" John demanded, standing partially in front of Sherlock as he squared off against the woman. "D'you realise how wrong it is to speak to a consultant that way?"

Donovan's dark eyes rolled to his and she smiled sweetly. "Robots don't care how you speak to them, Doctor Watson." Her eyes returned to the accused machine in question. "It's misleading, though—he's awfully good at making some people believe that he's a real boy." John's face darkened. Sherlock remained motionless, his face giving absolutely nothing away as he stared at a spot slightly to the left of Sally's head.

"Let's get the hell out of here," John growled, tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to jerk him away. The detective stumbled a bit but followed without resistance, his face still a carefully composed mask. "Ignore her," John murmured, fighting down the warm tide of red that flashed before his eyes. He received no reply.

They heard Donovan chuckle behind them. "I tried warning you, John. Don't invest energy into something that can't be fixed."

* * *

John closed the door of the flat behind them, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the wall hook. "I'm not really in the mood to go get anything for dinner," he sighed, retrieving his mobile from the jacket's pocket. "Raiding the fridge sound okay?"

He turned, expecting Sherlock to be busily ignoring him in the kitchen, but was instead surprised to find the consulting detective hovering over him, verdigris eyes boring into John's. "So…no pizza, then?" His smile at his own lame attempt at humour disappeared from John's mouth as Sherlock kissed him, hard. And didn't stop. John began to become suspicious when one of the detective's hands migrated downward and grasped a firm handful of John's behind. "What's going on?" he demanded, pulling away and staring.

Sherlock stood stock-still, annoyance writ clearly across his features. "I find your resistance unamusingly ironic."

"No—no, Sherlock," John said, fending off the other man's advances. "Answer my question." He folded his arms and stood there resolutely, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock frowned. "Is it really inconceivable that I may want to spontaneously kiss you?"

"No. The grabbing my arse part was what raised the red flag. You've never felt the need to do that before. Why now?"

The lanky brunette averted his eyes. "Could want to sometime. Could this time. Why does it matter?"

"Look." John unfolded his arms and stepped forward, grasping Sherlock softly by the forearms. "What Donovan said? She's an utter tosser and you know that—she shags Anderson, which hints that she wouldn't know good taste if it brained her with a neon sign. Have we_ ever_ fit the mould of what society deems 'normal'?"

"I couldn't answer that question, since that would imply that I know what 'normal' even is."

John had to laugh at that. "No, I suppose you don't. Thank God." He brought their mouths together briefly, running his fingers through the tangle of curls at Sherlock's nape.

When they parted Sherlock looked like he was going to say something important, but his lips were pressed together tightly. "I'm tired."

"No, you're not. But you know I am, so thanks. Let's go to bed."

* * *

Lying in bed next to Sherlock tended to make John wax romantic. It simply couldn't be helped. Sherlock had only begun to sleep regularly a few weeks ago, when they'd entered into their relationship. And as creepy as it sometimes sounded, John sometimes couldn't help but stare.

Gone were the ever-present tension lines around the consulting detective's eyes, mouth, and forehead. In sleep his mouth drooped open very slightly, and the way the street light cut across his face highlighted the unusual bone structure. He looked alien. Breakable.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open. "Why aren't you sleeping yet?" He definitely didn't sound as though he'd just woken up.

"I could ask you the same question. Why were you pretending to sleep?"

"I always pretend when you're falling asleep," Sherlock replied artlessly. "I can't go to sleep unless I know you already have."

He did that a lot, John realized, said something sentimental but didn't deliver it with emotion, because he believed it to be simple fact and related it as such. John found it heartbreakingly endearing. "I see. Well, if you must know, I may have been looking at your face. I do that sometimes."

"Mmn." Sherlock slid closer, and John felt a bony knee nudge him in the leg. "You haven't had sex in forty-seven days."

John blinked slowly, not bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that, considering that they'd only been together for twenty-four. "Bit of a non-sequitur. Why does it matter?"

A vulpine grin. "Don't pretend that you can hide your erections from me, Doctor Watson." Did Sherlock have a thing with calling John "doctor"? Could Sherlock even have a _thing_? "What were you _really_ thinking while watching me not-sleep?"

It was a good thing the bedroom was dark, or John's blush would have been much more easily detected; as it was, it seemed like the heat flooding his cheeks had warmed the air between their bodies. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"I'm sure." Beneath the duvet, one of Sherlock's hands slipped down John's front to rest over the man's partial erection. "Perhaps I can help with this?" he whispered.

"Er…"

"I'll take that as an 'Oh, God, yes'."

John hissed as Sherlock's chilly hand crept beneath the elastic waistband of his pants and tentatively grasped him. "Wh-whoa, hold up—I told you earlier you don't nee-_ah_…shit."

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm well aware of that. But you're my—" _boyfriend_ sounded juvenile, _partner_ sounded like a business or legal term, _lover_ sounded a tad creepy. "John, and I'd like to help."

John's breathing was erratic as that thin, thin hand stroked him firmly, as those sharp, sharp eyes stared. "Are you s—"

"I swear to a non-existent God, if you ask me that one more time, I will drug your coffee again." Sherlock kissed John just below his jaw. "I want to help. Now stop talking, but please feel free to moan or make any number of sex noises as I bring you to orgasm."

It didn't matter _what _he was doing—Sherlock, John supposed, would always be Sherlock.

* * *

"It's perfectly ridiculous."

John startled. "Huh?"

"The Kinsey Scale." Sherlock glanced over at John from where they were sitting in their respective chairs. "It's outdated, unrealistic, and exclusive of important modern theories regarding sexual orientation."

"How did you know I was think about the _Kinsey Scale_?"

"Simple: I looked at your face." John's brow furrowed slightly, and one side of Sherlock's mouth curved upward. "There, that. While facial expressions are useful at conveying emotions, yours seem to shout your thoughts from the proverbial rooftops."

John chuckled and closed his laptop. "Okay, I'll bite. How did you deduce my thoughts? Walk me through your deductive voodoo."

Sherlock snorted at "voodoo", but straightened in his seat nevertheless. "The first part was obvious—you opened your laptop and saw your desktop background: a picture of you and Harry taken last Christmas."

"You only know what the picture is because you steal this damned thing every chance you get."

Sherlock shrugged, completely unrepentant. "I like seeing what sort of delightfully uncreative passwords you devise in the hope of stumping me."

"But you somehow even guess the random number-and-letter strings!"

"I do, and it's not guessing. I thought you wanted me to walk you through."

'_I hope you know what I'm thinking right _now_ from my expression, you Nosey Parker,' _thought John. Instead, he simply said, "Go ahead."

"Seeing that picture made you think about what a good evening it had been, up to the part where she'd gotten plastered while you weren't paying attention." Sherlock didn't voice it, but John knew the man must've deduced that John blamed himself for her getting drunk. "You remembered how emotional she'd become, crying about how her life had been irreversibly ruined when your father kicked her out at sixteen for being gay. At that point of your ruminations, your brow became rather stormy."

John's jaw clenched unconsciously at the mention of his father. "Right so far."

"If I remember correctly, you told me that Harry then went on to sarcastically congratulate you on 'not being a bender', as you likely would have had a rougher time of it than she—at that point, your mouth twitched and the skin at the edge of your eyelids puckered. You thought about what she said: about you not being gay. You by no means considered yourself gay at that point, or even bisexual, but you acknowledged that you occasionally found men attractive. Your mind no doubt then turned to labels, and how everyone seems fixated on slapping labels on themselves and others, desperate to fit every single personality facet into neat little chalked squares. Of course, anyone who researches the subject of sexual orientation stumbles across the Kinsey Scale at some point, which is nowadays a cause of considerable controversy. You stared at the stain on the carpet for thirteen seconds, during which you wondered where you'd fit on that scale. You then snorted softly, deciding that you didn't really care, because things are rarely so clean-cut and able to be assigned an arbitrary, nonquantitative number on an outdated scale. That was when I agreed with you that yes, the Kinsey Scale's perfectly ridiculous."

John stared. He smiled. "How often do I tell you you're brilliant?"

Sherlock couldn't hide a small smile. "Now and again. I find it doubtful that I'll ever become desensitised to your unending exaltations. At least you keep me humble by calling me 'idiot' and 'berk' every now and again."

"A little reality's good for you," John joked. "You spend too much time in your head."

The mood shifted, Sherlock sitting up straighter in his chair and setting down his violin bow. He began to pluck at the strings absently. "It's vastly preferable to spending time with morons who can't see the value of a person past the usefulness of their genitals."

John knew Sherlock wasn't talking about him. "Luckily, some people can. Some people can see that a person uninterested in sex is a perfectly wonderful person."

"You mean a perfectly wonderful machine."

"_No_, just a perfectly wonderful everything." John did his eye-crinkling smile and Sherlock felt his heart thaw by a few degrees.

"I suppose you're right." Sherlock moved to sit on the arm of John's chair. His lips hovered above John's right temple, and the smaller man shivered at the feel of Sherlock's breath on his hair. "Machines aren't very good at handjobs." He kissed John with a grin and ran away.

* * *

**Again, sorry about the slow updates. I'll do my best to cut down my times between updates, but sometimes I have a hard time with the creative process. I'm working on it. Thanks for sticking this out with me! Drop a review if you have a few seconds to spare. **


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